


Wondered

by Gem_Gem



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adrenaline, Although they were crazy with lust they were prepared, Anal Sex, Attempt at humour, Bottom John, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm Bad At Titles, Idiots in Love, John is a Horndog, Love, Love Confessions, Lust, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rough Sex, Sex, Sherlock in Love, Tags Are Hard, Top Sherlock, Wall Sex, lube was used
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-30 17:08:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15756099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gem_Gem/pseuds/Gem_Gem
Summary: Wondernoun1. a feeling of amazement and admiration, caused by something beautiful, remarkable, or unfamiliar.2. a person or thing regarded as very good, remarkable, or effective.verb1. desire to know something; feel curious.2. feel doubt.





	Wondered

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KittieHill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittieHill/gifts), [FinAmour](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinAmour/gifts).



> I started this back in 2017, yet my muse, my inspiration, my motivation, all the good things we need to continue anything and everything, left me and I was unable to do anything more to it for ages.
> 
> Both [FinAmour](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinAmour) and [KittieHill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KittieHill) helped me. They reminded me and guided me and cheered me on, both for this and other stories, and so it is because of them that I have been able to finish it. The ending might be dull but I did it, and it wasn't forced, believe it or not. I'm just losing my touch a bit haha!  
> So I gift this to them!
> 
> It is also Kittie's birthday today as well so think of this as your present!

Sherlock’s naked skin was hot, firm, smooth and slick with sweat under John’s digging fingers. Fingers which left faint red flushing welts rising in their wake, some beading with blood wherever John’s nails slid too sharply, too deeply. John had never wondered what Sherlock’s muscled back would feel like under his hands. He’d never wondered what Sherlock’s blushing face would look like crumpled in grimacing pleasure. He’d never wondered how mussed he could get Sherlock’s dark curls, or how hard he could tug until the man grunted with an open mouth and a furrowed brow. He’d never wondered, never even thought, how it would feel to be the one being taken, splayed out, filled up and pushed down. He’d never wondered how they’d rock and rut together, how scorchingly wanton it would be, how desirous he would be for more, nor how the bed would creak and bang beneath them.

He hadn’t wondered a lot of things. Hadn’t wondered a great many, impossible, unknown, dangerous things.

Until after one night, after another one of their risky, treacherous cases, one which left them teetering on the edge of danger and death, it suddenly became too much. Became one hazardous case too many. It left them both altered. Turned them into grasping, panting, eager, lubricious beings, and they had thrown themselves at each other seconds after the front door had closed behind them. Uncaring about the pained flare from the pattern of forming bruises on their aching bodies, or the noise they made as they’d tripped up the stairs, tangled together with all four of their limbs. They had been ravenous and impatient, focused only on kissing, biting, and caressing every part of the other’s body that they could until they’d made it to John’s room.

After that it became a blur of clothes being shed, of uncovered nude skin pressing together, and them reaching, anchoring, and mapping what had only been glimpsed before. John had seen Sherlock’s pale flesh, but not all of it at once, not seen Sherlock as a whole. It had been groundbreaking and perfect. He’d needed it. Wanted it. Had always yearned to see Sherlock uncovered, unmasked.

John’s elbow nudged the discarded, wet, open bottle of lube beside him as he shifted and he glanced at it from the corner of his eye, hardly remembering reaching for it. When was the last time he’d even used it? Needed it? John hadn’t been with a woman for almost a month. He’d just about forgotten he had lubricant. It wasn’t often he even had the chance to masturbate. Now, however, he was essentially covered in the stuff. Now he’d used half of it in one sitting. Now he could feel where it slicked his thighs, his buttocks, easing the way for Sherlock to fill him again and again and again.

It had hurt, of course, being penetrated at first, had ached, stung, and burned, but it had only served to make it more real, and even headier. John remembered letting out a hissing growl to urge Sherlock on. John often liked it rough, liked the feeling of teeth at his throat, nails down his back, fingers yanking his hair. He liked the passion, liked having marks afterwards as a remainder, as a statement to the loss of control, to the overwhelming desire. Knowing he’d been branded, that he and his partner would be decorated and linked together for days after, was both a massive turn on and insanely intimate.

Sherlock exhaled loudly with a low, drawn-out groan against John’s ear, then again into the clammy crook of his neck, and John felt the spiral of lust, of hot, raw bliss, tighten in his gut, his pelvis, and snapped his hips up. They hadn’t talked yet. Not a single, uttered word. The rustle of blankets, slap of skin, shift of the mattress, wheezing of breath, and the knock of the headboard against the wall, were the only prominent sounds. John wasn’t sure he even could speak, being as light-headed and overcome as he was. All he could do was hold on, let out grunting moans, and make sure he marked as much of Sherlock’s long, lithe, undulating back as he could.

When Sherlock lifted his head and looked down at John through the darkness with hooded eyes, John stared right back at him, caught in the man’s intense, piercing gaze. He loved it when Sherlock watched him, observed him. He’d never been looked at the way Sherlock looked at him, had never been pulled apart and put back together again with one, sweeping, curious glance. It was intense, being the target of Sherlock’s focus, his interest, and as much as John enjoyed watching the man turn that inspecting gaze on others, he enjoyed it the most when it was solely on him, fixed and undeterred.

Moaning with a hitching, jumble of garbled incoherent words in response to Sherlock’s pleasure slackened features, John gave Sherlock’s plush buttocks a seizing yank, wanting his rocking hips to work harder and faster, for him to push deeper. He wanted so much it tore and twisted him up from inside. John had never wanted someone as much as he wanted Sherlock, not since his youth, when hormones would rage for control and sensible thoughts. When had he even built this appetite for Sherlock? How long had he kept this back and just how had he done so, how had he been so ignorant? He lunged up instead, a never-ending dissonance of desperate proclivity moving his body, his hands, and spurring him on. He twisted them both about, getting on top. The urge to move, to take in more of Sherlock, almost too strong to bear.

The sudden movement disconnected them, taking Sherlock by surprise, and John took a moment to absorb the look of wondrous bewilderment on the man’s face before he reached behind to press Sherlock back into where he needed him, where he craved for him, and began an awkward rhythm, hands spread on Sherlock’s sweat damped chest. Fingers pinching the hard peaks of Sherlock’s rosy nipples, circled in soft, sparse hair, and clearly straining to be touched.

John loved it when the women he slept with did this, when they took charge, pressed down, and took from him greedily. They always looked so gorgeously powerful in this arrangement, bared to him both physically and emotionally, and for a brief moment, John wondered what he looked like to Sherlock. Did he look just as exposed? Could Sherlock see more of him, more than just flesh and sinew and bone?

The thought made him blush and he clumsily sped up his movements with a stuttering inhale, his engorged, taut, leaking cock bouncing heavily out before him. He’d forced himself not to touch, not yet. He wanted to feel everything, feel what Sherlock gave him. Feel all of it. He didn’t want to lose the sensation of one thing with the kaleidoscope-like rush of another. Didn’t want to drown in bliss from his own hand and not feel the full effects of being fucked like this. Being fucked by Sherlock.

John wanted Sherlock to be the sole reason for his pleasure, he wanted him to be in control of how much or how little John got, and on some level John knew Sherlock realised this too, as the man hadn’t touched John’s erection either. He had touched everywhere but John’s genitals, leaving a map of throbbing, angry red lines and bruises all over John’s skin. John could feel them now he’d moved, now that the humid air of the bedroom met his back and the droplets of sweat were allowed travel down the bumpy road of his spine.

It was pure, dizzying ecstasy. John liked the contradicting juxtaposition that being on top whilst being penetrated gave him. It was intoxicating and fast becoming addictive, something he never thought he’d like or want. The orientation of their bodies, of the movements of their snapping hips, only added to the building, spiking flare of arousal, especially when the blunt head of Sherlock’s cock nudged into John’s prostate.

Colours and spots of light danced in John’s vision at the touch and he distantly heard himself crying out in wanton bliss from it all, something which spurred Sherlock on to catch the sensitive gland again and again, on every upwards thrust. He’d only stimulated his prostate a handful of times at best and never thought to do it more than that. Girlfriends weren’t always keen on it and to do it himself needed solitude, relaxation, and a lot of time, none of which he had much of when living with the world’s only consulting detective.

They rocked together in their new position for what felt like hours, staring into each other’s eyes and touching, pressing and digging trembling fingers into thighs, throats, and torsos, but all too quickly, in a blur, they moved again. They fell and then stumbled from the bed to push up against the bedroom wall, almost upending the chest of drawers to the left of them. John used it as support as he was slammed into the picture hanging behind him, it hurt and it made one hell of a noise, but he found he couldn’t care less, and after another dozen winding thrusts, with the sharp corner jabbing into the sweaty area of his nape, he reached back to knock the frame to one side, throwing it off completely with a bang and clink of shattered glass.

Sherlock bucked at the motion, bending his head to bite down on the column of John’s throat excitedly, and John gasped out a laugh, trying to stay stabilised and return the thrusts at the same time. The angle was awkward and Sherlock was once again no longer within him, but being pressed together, bodies slick with perspiration, fingers leaving half moon welts and circle bruises, felt good, felt perfect, felt just right. Especially when John went up on his toes, hiking one leg up to hook around Sherlock’s waist, pushing his shoulder into Sherlock’s teeth and his erection into the toned, flexing expanse of his flat stomach.

Why hadn’t they done this before? How could he not have seen this for himself? Why had the outside world been left to spell out what was clearly so obvious, so brilliant? He wondered if there had been moments in his past where he’d looked at a boy, a man, in a sexual way, if he had been oblivious to the unending possibilities his body, his mind, his self, had wanted, but couldn’t think, couldn’t stand the thought that he’d been so blind. So stupid.

It only took three full body undulations to have John violently trembling, on the edge of orgasm, the most intense orgasm he’d had in a long while from the feeling of it, so intense it almost burned, churning hot in his pelvis and balls. He choked on a wheeze, throwing his head back into the wall with an echoing, painful bang to try and starve off the spiralling, relentless feeling as it rushed at him, but Sherlock adjusted them, lifting his head to smear a moist, rapid breath against the line of his jaw and slotted their lengths together. Sherlock was rigid, silken damp, and physically throbbing.

“ _Fuck_ ,” John heard himself growl, slapping his hands down on Sherlock’s shoulders, his back, carving his powerless, raising pleasure into the flesh under his fingers.

With a strangled sound in the back of his throat, Sherlock shuddered, thrust, pressing the sensitive, sodden, blunt heads of their cocks together, and stumbled back as John came between them in taut, arcing splatters. They fell into the edge of the bed, Sherlock taking the full brunt of it, and then tumbled to the floor in a flail of limbs as Sherlock gasped and whined through his own climax, hitting the underside of his own chin with a stripe of pearly white. The sound of their naked, ejaculate-painted torsos smacking together brought a breathy giggle from John, and before he knew what was happening, they were rolling aside still caught up in each others arms, shaking, twitching, and bucking, in a fit of laughter whilst still in the throes of pleasure.

John lifted a hand to Sherlock’s face, wiping the offending dangling bead of come there away in amusement, “That...was... _amazing_ ,” he got out between belly shaking laughs, happy when Sherlock beamed back at him wonkily. He looked good. The curls of his fringe were stuck to his temples in sweat-soaked coils, and he watched his own fingers as they tenderly pushed them aside.

Sherlock, with a playful gleaming gaze, let out a gusty breath, still smiling, “You think so?”

“Of course it was,” John said, playing along. “Extraordinary. It was... quite extraordinary.

“That’s not what people normally say...”

“What do people normally say?” John whispered, tracing along Sherlock’s high cheekbone.

“How much do I owe you.”

John blinked and tensed, arching one eyebrow, an odd twisting happening in his gut, “ _What_?” he croaked. “You...you were—Was this because of your drug problem? Oh God, _please_ don’t tell me that you--”

“ _Relax_. It was a joke,” Sherlock snorted and stroked a hand across John’s heaving chest to give him a small pat, mouth pressing into a tight, half amused smile. “Clearly a not very good one. - I thankfully never became _that_ desperate.”

“Right. Good,” John nodded, relieved and annoyed at once.

“...It _was_ tempting though,” Sherlock mused, missing John’s narrowed glance. “People pay a pretty penny for sexual favours.”

“Stop talking.” John tapped Sherlock’s jaw when he huffed another laugh and grimaced as he pushed up to his feet, enjoying the aching soreness over his body, knowing he’d feel it for days after. A reminder, along with the marks left scattered over them both, of what they did. He shivered and glanced down at Sherlock, who was still sprawled out on the floor, stomach and chest glistening in their mixed release. “Come on. Let’s go to bed.”

“Like _this_?” Sherlock murmured, reaching for the hand John offered. He got up, unfairly elegant, and wrinkled his nose, looking down at the dribbles of ejaculate that ran the length of his body, only caught from falling onto the carpet by John’s smearing fingers. “The floor is already rather--”

“Don’t care,” John cut in, leading Sherlock to the side of the bed and heading for one of the drawers within his bedside table. He pulled out a box of tissues, ignoring Sherlock’s knowing look. It was obvious what he had them for anyway. “Right, here, wipe yourself up. Then we’ll cuddle.”

“I knew it.”

“Oh shut it. You’re as much as a cuddler as I am, you just don’t want to admit.”

“I’ve not really been in the position to find out whether or not I am a cuddler, actually,” Sherlock corrected, swiping at himself and throwing the wad of tissues aside without much care of where they landed. He peered at John under his brow for a moment and then lifted his head, smiling a soft, small smile. “Am I to be the big or little spoon?”

“I love you,” John replied instead, not realising he’d thought it, let alone said it, before it was out of his mouth. He shifted, turning his head away, scratching at his stomach and getting his fingertips covered in come. Snagging up a shaky handful of tissues, John dabbed and wiped at his abdomen, pelvis and still sensitive, still tingling, genitals. As he adjusted his stance, he remembered the lube and grabbed for more tissues, twisting to locate and close the lubricant bottle. “I, uh, I think you know that though. Goes without saying really.”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed, looking dazed when John spared him a glance. “Though...saying it is...very nice. As is hearing it. Very... _very_ nice.”

“Um. Yes. Yes, it...it is. Very. Yes – Which side do you want?” John asked.

Sherlock stepped up to him as John threw the used tissues aside and placed a warm hand to his shoulder, “It is not sudden to...say it either,” he said. “It might be a little unorthodox to say it after we’d been so...lustful and all, perhaps even a bit cliché, but we have been dancing around this for--”

“I _know_ ,” John blushed, leaning into the touch and into Sherlock’s body. When a soft kiss was placed at the base of his neck, John faced him and cupped his jaw, letting their noses touch before their lips did. They had kissed earlier yet it felt like they were kissing for the first time and it sent John’s heart thundering.

Slowly, they climbed into the bed together, under the covers, still kissing and leaving feather-light, warm brushes of fingers, nails, and palms. They fumbled for a bit, unsure on their dynamic in bed together, and it was embarrassing and giggle inducing, but soon they were comfortable, both on the mattress and in each other’s arms. John couldn’t believe he was where he was. Couldn’t believe the turn of events, of the change in their relationship being so effortless. They must have crossed or smudged the line before, even if John couldn’t remember when that had been. He wondered when, how, where. There were things he’d done or overlooked that he wouldn’t have beforehand, was it then? Sherlock was not John’s only best friend, though he was different than the others, and he wasn’t always able to pinpoint why that was.

“I...I love you too, John,” Sherlock breathed against the skin of John’s throat, where he nuzzled and burrowed with such clinging affection that John found it hard to breathe for a second. “It always went without saying. - But not any longer.”

“No. Not any longer,” John exhaled, gathering Sherlock’s body ever closer to his own, chin and mouth buried amongst ruffled curls. “God, _no_.”

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback fuels me! 
> 
> [Gem's Tumblr](http://gem-gem-bites.tumblr.com/)


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